


Maldito, mujer

by TheWild



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: But with good reason, F/M, Slow Burn, Well - Freeform, and also very confident, and reaper, because you are a good cop, but reader just wants to do her job, reaper is sneaky, reapers a bit of a bitch a lot, youre a potty mouth in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2018-10-15 02:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWild/pseuds/TheWild
Summary: You're a regular cop getting mixed up in way too much trouble for what it's worth- and it doesn't help that the villain of this story is incredibly intriguing.





	1. Chapter 1

“Caldwell police station, how can I help you?” you answer the phone leisurely, not really expecting an urgent reply.

“I need to speak to the head.”

The voice on the other side was hasty, most likely worried as well, but very low.

“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting, sir. Can I convey a message?”

“Someone’s after me-”

He continues after a deep breath.

“Something’s after me.”

You’d normally not take this very serious: you’d answered many a prank call in your time as an officer, but the sheer emotion you could hear through the telephone line worried you.

“Can you specify, sir?”

There was an inhale, as if he wanted to reply fast, but it was abruptly interrupted by what sounded like a punch and the telephone hanging up. Needless to say, that was worrying. You put down your phone as well, giving a nod to your colleague Riggs who had been following the conversation as she determined the coordinates of the call.

“Jonesy, Banks, Riggs, let’s go,” you order, putting away your gun as well as putting on your bullet proof vest: this reeked of danger.

* * *

“What’s the plan?” Riggs asks, tying her hair up in a handy ponytail as she follows right behind you. You look at the building intently; there weren’t really any clear dangers. It was an average suburban villa; white walls, big shiny car, door kicked in half-

Wait.

“You and Banks stay out here, Jonesy and I will go in.”

After a quick discussion of the plan; Banks and Riggs giving cover should something go wrong, and Jonesy entering from the front while you took the back, you sneak around to the side of the house to find some kind of entrance.

“Please, please don’t hurt me-”

It was soft, but that was definitely the voice that spoke to you on the phone. It seemed to come from the garage- the garage that also had taken quite a few blows from the looks of it. One side of the wall in particular was littered with indentations, about the size of a large fist.

“Where is it?”

Muffled as it was, that was clearly another voice. A more threatening, booming voice. You slipped under the window, gun at the ready. Despite your better judgement- judgement along the lines of ‘is he even threatened by a human’- you kept your finger safely off the trigger.

Just one more slide and you’d be at the door.

One...more…

You startled when something inhuman- something cold and lifeless- wrapped around your mouth, pulling you against the wall next to the garage door. You tried to struggle, one hand still on your gun but the other clawing and pulling at whatever _thing_ was wrapped around your face.

You had nerves of steel, in most cases. Not one to panic quickly, always looking for a way out.

When the door opened and black cloud wrapped around your legs and pulled you in, however, you could feel the cold sweat run down your brow. This was not normal. Nothing had prepared you for this kind of thing.

“Looks like we have an eavesdropper.”

You were haphazardly slung into a corner, object still wrapped around your mouth as you took in the sight before you.

On the ground, arms and legs tied, was presumably the man who phoned you, sweaty and eyes wide with terror.

In front of him, probably more important right now, was a towering man. At least, you hoped it was. The clouds that grabbed you retreated to his feet, disappearing under the leather vest. He wasn’t turned to you presently, but all you could make out from all the black was that he either really loved that colour or he was, in fact, the reaper.

When the captured man turned his shifty eyes in your direction, the assailant turned around as well.

Jesus.

It wasn’t scary when you looked at it as a concept, but the elongated owl mask paired with the gigantic guns- and black leather tight around the robust chest and arms- had some kind of effect, at least. In your case, a bad one.

“I am _so_ sorry, ms. officer,” he says in a taunting tone, taking painfully slow steps, “you seem to have come at the wrong time.”

The thing around your mouth loosens and you take a deep breath, locking eye contact with the black holes in the mask. You want to shove yourself away from the direction he was walking in, but instinct told you it might be better to face it head-on.

'It', an apt description.

You really weren’t convinced this thing was human.

“I’m going to ask you to release that man over there, sir,” you say confidently, raising your gun to aim at his shoulder- shooting to kill didn’t seem like an option. You’d have to stall.

Let’s just say you were more than surprised when he squats down in front of you, clawed hand reaching out and holding your cheeks uncomfortably- squeezing. You know murderous intent when you see it, and this man definitely wanted blood.

“Cute. But just stay put here, would you?” the voice behind the mask hisses as you swallow a lump in your throat. The hand on your cheeks travels down, pausing on your neck.

It’s not quite pressing down but you feel like one wrong word might make him do that. It doesn’t exactly matter, though, because you can see the captive crawling toward the opened garage door- you just needed to stall.

Just a little.

“No can do, sir, I’m afraid you’re under arrest for breaking and entering, taking hostages and threatening a government official,” you reply calmly, still looking at the mask with your gun now leaning against his shoulder.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spits, grip tightening just a little, “I’m not playing a game here.”

“Neither am I, sir.”

The hand that is not currently contemplating strangling you tries to take away your handgun but doesn’t succeed before you fire two bullets- one goes through and the other speeds past his face.

When the only thing that happens is mist pouring out of his shoulder, you have to admit you start panicking a little more.

“Do you _want_ to die?” he continues.

“Want you to get arrested, sir,” you whisper, eyes still slightly widened in panic- fear, if you will- as the mist comes out of the crevices around the mask now.

“ _Maldito, mujer._ ”

You feel the impact of a hard, strong fist lined with metal hit you in the head and you faint almost instantly.


	2. Chapter 2

When you first wake up, you accidentally jerk your arm up into the face of an unsuspecting nurse. After profoundly apologizing, you see the smiling face of Riggs.

“What happened?” you ask her softly, lying back down on the soft hospital bed.

“We found you knocked unconscious. They checked for internal bleeding but found nothing.”

She stares you down, and you don’t have to ask what she wants to know next.

“There was someone there,” you groan as you sit up, your head stinging.

“Thought so. We didn’t find a trace of anyone though.”

Riggs steps around your bed to go settle on the lonely chair in the room.

“Nothing?”

“What’d they look like?”

“Tall, lots of leather. Black mist,” you throw around some words in the hope that she thinks you’re making sense- because to your own mind, you are most certainly not.

“Black mist, huh?” the confident lull in her voice resounds in your head and you give her a surprised look.

“Yeah, what of it?”

“The Reaper.”

She says it so solemnly, so sad-sounding, that you can’t help but think she’s joking and you crack a smile.

“Reaper? What is this, some edgy fantasy novel?” you snort.

“You’ve never heard of Reaper? Assassin extraordinaire, slayer of men, generally loves cloaking himself in a thick black mist?”

Riggs is staring you down but you can only shrug.

“No.”

“He’s been seen around these parts often. You’re lucky you’re not filled to the brim with bullets.”

* * *

After she leaves, and you’re discharged from the hospital, the words keep resounding in your head.

_Assassin extraordinaire._

The fuck did he leave you alive for, then? Shoddy assassin, if anyone asked you.

You’re given a week off of work to regain strength and you gladly take it; you had some extra hours to take up, anyway.

* * *

If anything, waking up in the middle of the night just meant you needed to eat or drink. Your biological clock had a weird habit of craving munchies in the middle of the night so when it happens again, you don’t really wonder about it.

Until you see a shadow on the roof of the apartment block opposite yours.

While far away, you’d recognize that bulky posture anywhere: and you rub your eyes in response.

A dream. It must be a weird, weird dream.

True enough, when you look back, there’s nothing but diluted grey mist floating in the spot where you _think_ you saw the ghost-man-assassin.

* * *

“Ey, she’s back! How was your vacation?” Jonesy shouts for the entire department as you sit down at your desk with your coffee and candy bar.

“Decent. How’s work?”

Jonesy gives you a stone-cold stare.

“Sucks.”

“We’re stuck on this,” Riggs throws a stack of papers onto your desk, disrupting the pile that was already there- and that you had meticulously classified- while leaning back in her chair.

“We can’t find why Reaper would go for him. There’s gotta be some kind of lead, but it’s impossible to find.”

“Hmm,” you sing, taking a sip of coffee before going through the files.

* * *

Why would a world-class assassin- though you didn’t think he was, really- go for a tiny rich man with a few villas on his name? Wealth? Impossible. He couldn’t embezzle the spoils that easily. Fame wasn’t really an alibi either, considering he apparently already had that.

The files told you nothing either: they were standard shit, going through the motions of what could potentially be a lead. Except nothing was.

Nothing except, you found at 11 p.m. working late, the mysterious sum of money that just landed in his account. Not Reaper’s account- but rich man’s bank. You don’t just get 1.456.270 dollar out of nowhere.

Maybe it was time to pay a visit to the house tomorrow.

* * *

The house is marked with the silly yellow police tape and after showing your badge, you leisurely stroll into the humongous villa.

The garage was big but this was just a waste of space.

You carefully looked through wherever documents could be hidden: cupboards, desks, couches, beds. Nothing.

Nothing to find and all of a sudden the office door slams closed while you are going through another stack of banknotes, making you turn to find the last person you wanted to see.

“If it isn’t miss officer,” the Reaper- it still felt ridiculous calling him that, really, calls out while he closes the door carefully. You don’t drop the notes, but you do notice the fact that he is carrying a stack of papers- most likely conducting some illegal search as well.

“What’re you doing here?”

You refrain from adding some silly nickname, assuming that it’s safer for you if he thinks you don’t know who he is.

“Searching.”

He casually places the papers on the desk and looks through them, stacking them in three piles. It’s only after a few minutes that he gets annoyed by your incredulous stare.

“What?” he growls as you turn to him completely, and he matches your movement by turning to you.

“What do you think you are doing here?” you demand as you place the banknotes back on the shelf where you picked them up.

“Nothing of importance to you. Now, be quiet.”

You need a moment to work through the fact that this random-ass cosplayer just told you to shut up, but once you’ve gotten over it you give him a dirty stare.

“Hold up-” you mutter, staring at the sturdy chest, “why exactly _are_ you here?”

He hooks one of the claws under your chin after approaching you and lifts it effortlessly, seemingly inspecting in particular your eyes and cheekbones for something. Perhaps he thought you were wired?

“You’re repeating yourself. But I’ll indulge you. Looking for a cure.”

You raise your eyebrow: the man that lived here was anything but a medic.

“A cure for _what_ , exactly?”

There’s the clicking of a tongue indicating that he probably won’t answer that- but you can’t help the questions.

“Getting a bit too curious, aren’t we, miss officer?” he starts, releasing your chin with a flick of his wrist and turning to the desk littered with papers.

“Wouldn’t you be?” you are trying to spot a reaction, but when there’s none, you use up your last bit of bravery for today while you draw air quotations with your fingers, “strange misty man appears in places where people have been breaking the law.”

He doesn’t turn to you but you can see him hesitate slightly while grabbing a stack of paper and that is more than enough for you. He might think he has the upper hand in whatever dynamic you two had going on, but you weren’t an idiot.

“ _Yo deberia tú matar cuando tuve la oportunidad_.”

“Could we continue in English, thanks?”

You don’t know where you got the sudden rush of confidence. Quite frankly, you wished it would stop. You didn’t fancy getting killed after all, and you were finally getting to know this strange entity a bit better.

“Curious ánd cocky, a bad combination,” he muses and though you feel like you can hear what sounds like a second of amusement, you try not to focus on it. You have to be alert.

“Doesn’t answer any of my questions.”

You’ve taken a step too far and you notice that by the way he dissolves- _dissolves_ , for goodness’ sake!- and reappears, pushing you into the door. Your hand instantly reaches for the doorknob, ready to open, but it gets trapped by his.

“I _said_ you’ve been getting too curious. You’d think you’d be smart enough not to provoke me.”

“I’m smart enough to know that you’re not abiding by the law, sir, and considering I’m a police officer…” you raise your shoulders in a matter-of-factly way, trying to not let him notice the fear in the pit of your stomach.

“I am _really_ not the person you should be after.”

So he was a person after all? Or was he a delusional ghost that thought he was a human being?

“Take a look at this,” he grunts, gliding away from you and picking out one paper in particular. You take a few moments before you decide to shuffle over- he had, after all, threatened you quite a lot in the short time you’d known him- and settle on the other side of the table, keeping the distance between you two very clear. Nonetheless, you grab the paper.

It’s an order of some sorts: it has the standard layout of an order form complete with address, return address, price...it’s only when you notice what the order is for, that your eyes widen.

“They made a…” you hesitate, reading it again just to be sure, “they made an order form for a strange chemical substance?”

Your new cloud-like friend leans both arms on the table, but still towers over you somehow. Must be the fact that he is floating.

“You know what that is?”

Expecting him to explain, you shake your head.

“ _Mierda_.”

“I’m a police officer, not a scientist.”

You pause your breathing when the mask turns upward to your face at your comment. Was that the final straw for him? You hoped it wasn’t. You liked breathing and living. You almost- _almost-_ pissed your pants when he did his little disappearing act again and reappeared right behind you. What a show-off.

“We can help each other make sense of this,” he starts, low rumble entering your ear, “I can show you the way to the bigger criminals and you can...close your eyes and ears to certain occurrences.”

“What makes you think I spent 2 years training to be an officer and 5 years in the military only to completely forgo protocol?”

Your harsh tone clearly does something- you hear a hitch of breath for the shortest moment- and he taps the paper in your hands with one of the claws.

“You’re an annoying little shit, aren’t you? You want to find out what these people are dealing or not?” he hisses now, clearly pissed again, the sweet rumble gone completely.

You were starting to see a pattern here. He’d try to smooth-talk you and then piss his big-boy pants every time you declined. It was, in all honesty, a bit childish.

“I do, but you did assault someone. And you’ve broken into many houses at this point, I’m sure,” you confidently state, head held high, “on top of that you’ve threatened me quite a few times now. And also assaulted me. And damaged property.”

 _“Otra vez,_ ” he starts, “do you want to find out what these people are dealing....” this time, it’s not just a stylistic pause, but he actually cocks one of his guns and holds it against your side, “or not?”

You contemplate the two options you have. One, saying no and most likely getting shot in the side. Considering the size and proximity of the gun, you’d probably lose a kidney and some other vital organs. Two, say yes and go against law and rule. You don’t lose anything at this point in time but there is a big chance you get found out eventually and lose your career and apartment. And potentially spend time in jail.

Or three, you hope he is bluffing with the gun and stall until you can get away, even though last time, stalling landed you in the hospital.

“Geez, Louise, don’t ask favours with a loaded gun in someone’s side,” you retort, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight twitch of fear. Option number three it was.

“This is not a matter of favours. I have no use for a smart mouth.”

“Then why am I still alive and kicking, huh?” you ask, and you feel him tense up.

 _Aha_.

“I need a better cause than just catching big fish to put my entire life and career on the line.”

“Then I suppose we’ll meet as enemies next time,” he says, his voice turned silky smooth again as he glides away to the door. Gone are all the papers, all potential proof, except for the one you're holding.

You clutch it against your chest and hope that you won’t _actually_ meet him again.

As if on cue, he appears momentarily again, grabbing at your throat and a bit too close for comfort while he takes the paper away.

“Don’t get in my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Yo deberia tú matar cuándo tuve la opportunidad.” = “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”  
> “Mierda.” = “Fuck.”  
> “Otra vez,” = “One more time,”


	3. Chapter 3

Riggs hands you your dark chocolate Frappucino as she enters the car, already wolfing down a cupcake.

“Hey, don’t leave crumbs!” you remark, leaning back while taking a sip.

You were glad that after everything that had been going on with black mist and threatening men you finally had a calm stakeout job; nothing much could go wrong here.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Riggs mocks, closing the door and finishing her food at inhuman speed, “any signs of action yet?”

You shake your head and redirect your focus to the run-down building. It’s an old factory that was often used as a squat by drug dealers: exactly the reason why you were here today. Riggs had gotten a hint that there’d be quite the deal going down today, and it was your job to either catch the perpetrators or at least figure out what they looked like.

As of now, though, nothing much had been happening.

“You reckon we could get a better car next time?” she asks you, struggling with the handle of the glove compartment and right as you turn to her, ripping it off.

“We’d be kind of out of place in a brand new Mercedes,” you note, shrugging.

She gracefully chucks the handle into the depths of the trunk and takes a sip of her drink.

* * *

You were almost- almost- falling asleep behind the wheel because of lack of action. And you might’ve had a bad night’s sleep after the incarnation of death had literally threatened you, but you liked blaming your bad eating habits better.

The only thing that kept you awake was the paper bag that kept getting swept up by the wind and then fell back down. It was strangely relaxing.

Until it got swept up by familiar black gusts of wind.

“Riggs, are you seeing that?”

When you don’t receive a reply you turn to find Riggs had actually fallen asleep on the job. You’d have to reprimand her for that later, but right now, you had some more pressing issues.

Like why your edgelord friend was hanging around a drug-dealing site.

There could be various reasons: he could just be hanging out in the neighbourhood, though that seemed unlikely. Or he might have a target in the factory. But then you’d have to go intervene as well. Or he wanted to go sightseeing? Highly unlikely as well.

* * *

While you get out of the car quietly, you make sure to check that there’s no smoke either around the car or around your feet- you still didn’t know exactly how his disappearing act worked and at this point you’d rather not find out.

The factory is only a minute away by foot- your hurried shuffles carry you there swiftly while you check your gun for ammo and make sure your cellphone is on your person should Riggs come help you out.

There’s a back entrance where you both had your sights on, considering you doubted criminals would waltz through the front door carrying illegal substances, and as you open the door it creaks.

A lot.

You’d seen the mist retreat further into the building and you really hoped he was already out of here.

Of course, as is fate’s want, that was not the case. Right when you’d gotten the door to a respectable position where you could comfortably enter without making more of a ruckus, the mist came back at an alarmingly fast rate, coiling around the floor of the small entrance you found yourself in.

At least _he_ was having fun.

You are about to tell him to just come out and appear, as it is the polite thing to do, but you feel warmth at your back right before the ground suddenly approaches. You groan in pain when you collide with the cold, hard tiles, feeling a bruise forming in the middle of your forehead and on your elbow that was unfortunately positioned during the fall.

“Getting in my way again, miss officer,” he mutters, boot stepping down on your knee when you try to get up.

“I’m just doing my _goddamn_ job, edgelord.”

It slips out before you can stop it and while you have regretted some things in your life- that one awkward comment you said to your elementary school crush, and that one time you spilled coffee on Riggs’ wedding dress- you don’t think you’ve ever regretted something this much.

“Oh, really?” he remarks, and you can hear the smirk, “what a pity I don’t want you to.”

You figure that you’re already in too deep and when you feel the pressure on your knee lessen, you flail your leg and kick his leg away, scurrying to an opposite wall and sitting up.

You could feel your heartbeat on your face and man, it hurt. It felt like someone was slamming a hammer into your face every millisecond.

“I’ve fucking noticed,” you hiss, checking your elbow by rolling up your sleeve.

It was turning a sickly blue very fast, blood already clotting underneath to form a nice little hematoma. You cursed under your breath at the sight. Like you had time for this. You had trouble moving it because of the sheer pain in it- and it was your dominant arm as well.

“Then why don’t you _stop_?” he asks, taking out a gun.

You want to take out yours but the holster is awkwardly placed now that your main arm is out of commission, so you settle for a seething glare and scanning for a way out the door.

“Because I’ve got to arrest some drug dealers. You don’t even have anything to do with this!”

At this point, your voice is raising itself in frustration. Must be quite the sight to see, you muse, but your thoughts quickly go back to the situation at hand.

“Look, I really don’t want to kill you, but you seem to leave me no choice.”

You want to mock him for that statement- he was an assassin, for christ’s sake- but there is an underlying tone of sincerity. It confuses you beyond belief when he takes out the shotgun, taking slow steps towards your slumped body while he raises it.

You close your eyes and prepare for a swift death but only hear a gunshot going to your right.

That was not where your face was.

How weird.

“You’re going to want to get up, _mujer_ ,” you hear him say before more shots are fired. You can hear his boots click towards where he’s firing: you quickly scurry to get up and wiggle around with your arm until you can get your gun as well, carefully positioning your hurt arm so you can cock it and fire if need be.

When he’s out of ammo for the one gun, you expect him to reload, so you momentarily point your gun in the general direction he was firing at- only for him to drop the gun on the ground and take out a new one.

“Well, that’s a goddamn waste of a gun if I’ve ever seen one,” you mutter, stepping closer to see what he was doing.

3 bodies were on the floor, blood pooling under them, while you could see a few more retreat to another exit.

“I uh,” you start, gun still aimed at the entrance even though your head was telling you to lie down and take 5, “I needed them either arrested or alive.”

Reaper snorts, but turns his masked expression behind you quickly.

“Your friend is coming. You’re lucky this time, but I’d really advise you to stay out of my way.”

You can hear the mix of annoyance and...amusement in his voice, though the latter confuses you.

“No can do, mate. This is my turf,” you reply, repositioning your gun so it’s pointed at his mask, “and I really think you should come to the office with me for questioning.”

He lets out full-blown laughter now, pushing aside your arm as he floats closer.

“ _Usted es hilarante. Que sería una vergüenza para martarte_.”

You’re knocked off your feet for the second time that day- luckily landing on your butt, which is unpleasant, but at least your head and arms are safe- while he disappears swiftly, Riggs rushing behind you.

“Jesus, you’re not supposed to raid the place on your own!” she cries out, squatting down beside you as she takes a good look at your face, “that bruise is a...good look.”

The snort she lets out makes you smile.

“You were sleeping on the job, young lady.”

You exchange a stare before she offers her hand to help you up.

“Let’s keep quiet about both of those things to the chief. Your misty friend came by again, I presume?”

You can only nod as you see the last bit of mist finally disappear after Riggs’ comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Usted es hilarante. Que sería una vergüenza para martarte." = "You are hilarious. It'd be a waste to kill you."
> 
> i closed all my tabs and had to rewrite this but it's ok! i had to look up starbucks coffees because I've never actually visited a Starbucks. then again, i don't drink coffee so that's probably why.
> 
> also, a hemotoma is a thing where the blood kind of pools under your skin, which is completely harmless but it becomes really hard to move and it hurts. i once had it on my wrist when i slipped on a piece of paper and jeez, it was unpleasant as heckie.
> 
> I really want to thank you guys for the kind comments and support! enjoy, and sorry it's so short!


	4. Chapter 4

You didn’t sleep well anymore. It wasn’t fear, per sé, but you couldn’t get the black mist out of your head.

You’d dream of metal claws scratching at your door and boots clicking on your floors, but when you’d open your eyes there would only be your familiar bedroom. Or there’d be mist creeping into the elevator as discarded shotguns were strewn across the hall. 

Maybe you should go see a doctor about this. After all, it was taking it’s toll on your professional life- you’d taken a step back and volunteered to do most of the office work that was usually Riggs’ job.

Well, volunteered.

She’d practically forced it on you when you arrived at the third house search that week, eyes tired and constantly looking around for misplaced mist. And then you proceeded to throw your coffee cup at an innocent owl that was just relaxing on a tree.

You were glad Riggs was around to stop you from completely ruining yourself  _ and  _ innocent animals around you.

You peeked at your alarm clock yet again: the bright neon lights told you that it was 03:21. Not an hour to be lying awake in bed, and certainly not in the middle of the week. You had work, for Christ’s sake. Frustrated, you let out an angry growl and turned yourself around so you face the window- a better idea.

Even if the moon seems to be mocking you by shining brightly as well.

Exactly one hour later, after you’ve gone through every possible sleeping position- you hear the clicking again.

Only this time, you’re not sleeping. It can’t be a dream, because daydreaming wasn’t this realistic.

The sound seemed to get closer and closer, loudest right under your window and then becoming quieter again as it disappeared on the other side.

Sleep-drunk, or just really stupid, you slid your feet into your worn flip-flops and hurried down the stairs, throwing open both your door and the entrance to the apartment to quickly scan the street.

You only realized that scanning the street hardly had any point when the only working streetlight was 150 feet away. You turned back to where you heard the clicking- it had ended, now, but you weren’t going to just believe you were going insane  _ that  _ easily- and sure enough, with a decent amount of squinting and turning your head, you could see the ends of a coat float along.

“Hey!” you yell out, pocketing your keys before closing the door and following the coat- flip-flops squeaking on the concrete, “hey!”

The coat stops.

You stop as well, keeping a good 6 feet of distance in between you and the floating garment. You can’t make out any form that might hint at your murderous  _ friend _ , but the way the cape swishes, mist swirling in all directions but particularly too much into your direction- gives you enough of an idea that he is here.

“Could you just…” you sigh, exasperated, leaning your head into your hand, “not be wherever I happen to be, you piece of-”

When the mist finally materializes, it is once again the Reaper in all his moody glory, but he’s clutching at his arm. 

Peculiar.

“Well, don’t hold back,” he grunts, “don’t let me interrupt your hysterical tirade.”

Your eyes trail back and forth between the arm- clearly hurt, even if you can only make out his posture- and the mask.

“Are you hurt?”

You don’t mean to, but because of your lack of sleep it comes out  _ mocking _ , and you follow the statement by a long yawn.

“None of your business,” he hisses back, and you see the shape of his shoulders become slightly more spread and rigid- behaving like a scared animal that needed to prove it’s courage. If your eyes haven’t betrayed you yet, it’s him stepping back from you now, but you follow suit with a step in his direction.

“Look, dude, I don’t like you, but it’s my duty as an officer to at least  _ help  _ wounded citizens.”

If he even was a citizen, you add in your head.

“How kind of you, miss officer,” it is the sickly sweet tone you despise at this point, the one that’d say made up words to you in your dreams- “but I don’t want or  _ need  _ help from a scantily clad police officer right now.”

Ah yes, your pajamas. 

He could make a fuss about that all he wants, at least you weren’t in pain.

“I’m sure mama’s proud that you’re a brave little boy but I’ve got a first aid kit in my hallway.”

You saunter over to the front door, deciding you’ll keep it open for ten minutes, waiting next to it calmly. 

It takes a while but suddenly the mist goes in, swiftly travelling up the stairs to where you left your door open, as you stroll behind.

He’s waiting in the middle of your living room- and when you turn on the light, it finally becomes clear what exactly was going on.

You’d taken a guess that he couldn’t get hurt in his ghostly form- and you assumed you were right by the way the wound was lined with a sickly purple colour, the edges leaking some of the mist- but apparently someone had found a loophole.

You grab the first aid kit, quickly sorting through it to find gauze and some ointment. 

Even if you weren’t  _ quite  _ sure how you were supposed to treat supernatural wounds.

“Well, sit down, will you?” you command briskly, waving at your couch- sure, there were some books on there and there was that pesky coffee stain, but it would have to do.

“Why the sudden kindness?” he hums, taking up the entire couch almost- maybe you should get a bigger couch. Or he should sit in a less cocky and provoking manner.

“Like I said, it’s my job. And I guess I should be grateful you haven’t killed me yet.”

He’s quiet after that and you decide to shut up as well, carefully dabbing at the wound once you’ve taken a seat on the coffee table. It was fascinating- definitely while you were tired- to see the flow of the mist change every time you came near it. The wrapping itself went relatively well but you couldn’t help but notice the fact that his skin seemed to be changing constantly around the edges of the cut.

Sleepy, eyes droopy, you slip into a habit of when you babysit Riggs’ 3 kids: you run a thumb over the cut slowly before patting it gently.

You realize you’ve done that by the way his arm tenses up, not quite pulling away but definitely  _ wanting  _ to.

“Ah, sorry,” you start, yawning, “is what I do with the kids. Now go and shoo away to your dark hideout.”

You expect him to get angry at calling him a kid- that’s basically what you’ve done- but as you get up and pull off your flip-flops he stands up as well, moving to the door that you’d left open.

You’re already running a hand through your hair and stumbling towards your bedroom,and the Reaper- _ assassin extraordinaire, slayer of men, _ can’t get himself to shoot you down right then and there- even though he should. 

Even though he could. 

He carefully closes the door behind him and grumbles. You were drowning in a sea of shady practices but were too busy looking up at the sky to notice.

_ “Estúpida.” _

* * *

You were finishing up some mundane paperwork- sipping from your frappucino like your life depended on it and carefully opening the wrapper of an energy bar- when your thoughts travelled back to the order form edgelord had shown you. Might as well do something productive about the fact that the recent happenings wouldn’t leave your unconscious.

If only you could remember what was  _ on  _ it.

Stripey pants...stratosphere...strenuous conversations with mercenaries-

No, no, no. That train of thought was going nowhere.

You gulp down the energy bar and lean back in your chair, leaning your neck back as you stare at the ceiling.

Stripes. Strawberries.

Oh, you were in the mood for strawberries. The grocery store might have some.

Your thoughts of a strawberry smoothie were violently interrupted when a stack of paperwork was heaved onto your desk.

“Gotta finish these as well,” your boss says, eyebrow slightly raised at your pensive expression pointed toward the ceiling.

“Will do,” you mutter, waving him away.

You leaned back forward, typing random strings of letters into Google’s search bar, until finally, you seemed to have found something.

Strychnine.

That sounded chemical.

A poison that attacks the central nervous system. Well, well, well.

You print out whatever you can find- carefully stacking them and stapling them together before putting them away in your bag. 

Guess you’d have some literature to work through tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

It was horrifying to read. Not particularly because you couldn’t handle descriptions of death, but more so because you knew that somewhere in this town, there were copious amounts of this stuff stored.

Strychnine- inhaled, swallowed, or absorbed through eyes or mouth- caused poisoning resulting in muscular convulsions and eventual death.

So clearly, somebody wanted someone dead.

Or multiple people.

Either way, it was bad news, but as long as your misty friend had the papers, your hands were tied. You couldn’t really start an investigation out of nowhere: the small police station didn’t have the funds or manpower for that. You could always tell Riggs, but that meant telling her in detail about the leather-loving mercenary and you somehow felt that would put her in too much danger.

When your cellphone rings, it’s Riggs calling.   
Speaking of the devil.

“Hey there,” you greet her, balancing the phone on your shoulder as you continue reading.

“Hi. Bad news.”

She leaves a pause as if she wants you to ask about it.

“Bad news?” you copy.

“5 people found dead, including our boss.”

You keep quiet: you have to work through that.

“What?” it takes a few seconds for the word to finally escape from your mouth, but you hear Riggs opening and closing a door.

“5 victims were found shot dead around town, and there were also shotguns all around-”

You can only think of how your  _ friend-  _ who probably loves ‘Wake me up Inside’- uses disposable shotguns.

“- but that’s not all. On the crime scene there were documents all around: mostly concerning the buying of poisons, weapons, you name it.”

You tried not to choke on your drink, you really did.

“As your reaction indicates, I thought you might know something with the way you’ve been acting like a weirdo after you met Reaper.”

Letting out a groan- Riggs is your junior, you can just as well tell her to fuck off, but she is also one of the best officers on the team and will get you back for that- you grab the phone properly as you lean your head on your hand.

“You remember that fucked up phone call we got a while back?” you ask cautiously, eyes closed. You can hear her sit down so she can listen to you: clearly, she’s not just going to let this slide.

“That guy had a big order for strychnine placed.”

Silence. 

“It’s a poison. I don’t have proof, but I saw it. And, uh, the guy who left those shotguns is the guy who has the proof.”

“Well, that’s a problem.”

“Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes while you think of ways to make sure your reaper friend doesn’t find out Riggs is onto him- and she probably tries to work through the revelation of information.

“Anyway, come over to the office early tomorrow. We’ll talk about this.”

You confirm the date and try to sleep- not being able to, unfortunately. Thoughts were swirling around and you still didn’t quite know whether or not Reaper was good or bad- you assumed bad, very bad.

The shotguns were kind of a giveaway.

* * *

The office was in big disarray. When you arrived, energy bar in hand, hair haphazardly thrown together in an updo to hide the fact that you didn’t brush it, people were rushing around and throwing documents at each other. Riggs, however, was sitting in the middle of it all like a Buddha, calm and collected and radiating tranquility.

You decided to just go straight to her.

“Hey there,” you wave, crashing down on the chair like a lump sack of potatoes.

“Hello,” she starts- not looking up from whatever she was working on, “you feel like going off to look for your friend?”

You blink and stuff the energy bar in your mouth completely.

“I do-” you start, chunks of energy bar almost flying out as you sound funny, “but I don’t have any idea where he is. Tends to float around. Very hard to find.”

She hums and nods, rummaging through some of the papers quickly with some flicks of her thumb.

“Someone reported gunfire and smoke at the old gas station.”

She hands you a bundle of papers, neatly stapled together. Indeed, the reports were there- some even reporting a menacing shadow on rooftops.

What a  _ goddamn  _ edgelord.

“So, I go alone, or…?” you finally finish up your breakfast- washing it down with a cup of water you’d found on Riggs’ desk. She seems to think about that one.

“I don’t know. If you go alone, you’re in danger. If people come with, I don’t know if he’ll come out. He only knows you.”

“You are talking about a dangerous assassin like he’s a scared dog.”

“Is there really a difference?”

“Dogs are a lot nicer and don’t carry shotguns.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

After a long discussion, you’d decided to go alone. The police station couldn’t afford another big loss; and you were sure that if he hadn’t killed you the previous 4 times, he wouldn’t now either. For some reason.

The stakeout car is even more battered, somehow, when you reach for the handle on the door and find a post-it saying there’s only one way to open it: brute force and some luck with a screwdriver.

After ten minutes you’re able to to finally reach the goddess of ‘prying things open with your bare hands’.

You’d be able to find Reaper in a quieter part of town; the old gas station was surrounded by mostly abandoned buildings that were on the brink of collapse. It was anything but a nice neighborhood- but at least you didn’t stand out in your broken down car. And the appropriate civil wear: loose hoodie, ripped jeans and sneakers.

* * *

Exactly 1 hour and 23 minutes. That’s how long it took for anything to happen. It had been an hour and a few minutes of wind sweeping up trash- the occasional bird flying by and a stray cat that looked really cute climbing a lonely fence.

Finally, while watching an empty can travel along the street, you saw suspicious smoke- but not the colour you were expecting. A muddy purple, you assumed some red mixed in as well, was escaping an alley in waves.

Talk about suspicious.

Your station didn’t have money for gas masks, and that gas looked...dangerous. Especially after all the literature you had consumed concerning, well, deadly poison. Luckily strychnine was colourless- well, luckily…that was a subjective statement- so it couldn’t be that.

You grabbed around on the shotgun seat until you found your handkerchief- it would have to do for now. You just hoped the smoke wouldn’t turn you blind.

* * *

You took a deep breath before placing the handkerchief over your nose and mouth firmly- using your other hand to wave as best as you could in front of your face. It didn’t do much- the further you walked into the smoke, the thicker it became- you could hardly make out anything but shapes.

But you’d recognize the looming shape of edgelord anywhere. And, well, the coughing also helped. 

“Hey,” you called out, sounds muffled by the cloth at your mouth- but the shaped stopped moving.

“What are you-” he hissed, crashing into the wall with his shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

He didn’t give a reply- at least, if his slumping into the ground didn’t count. You didn’t rush over- in all honesty, you were scared to. But you took careful steps forward, slowly, calculated.

The low, husky groaning didn’t stop.

When you were finally close enough to make out details on his outfit again- and the fact that he wasn’t carrying any shotguns at the moment- you lean down cautiously, alert to your surroundings. When he grabbed hold of your forearm- tight, claws sinking into the skin as you hissed in pain- you tried lunging back but didn’t manage.

Jeeze, the muscle on this man.

Ghost.

Mist-dude.

“Get. _Out_.”

“I _can’t_ if you have a hold on my arm.”

His arm dropped down- but instinctively yours did too, the handkerchief falling to the floor.   
As if on cue, you could feel dizziness hit you, needing to drop down on your knees for support. Well. This was a problem. You tried to stop breathing- finding out that only works for so long before your lungs scream out and burn for air- while you slump closer to the ground.

A curse left your mouth before everything turned black, eyesight failing and consciousness fading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! busy week at work & college! lets just pretent 'wake me up inside' became a meme


	6. Chapter 6

It smelled like hospital. Now, some people might like that smell, but you did not. Especially not after losing consciousness. You were flat on your back- of that you were sure. When you dragged your arm up- weighing heavy, numb, tingling slightly- you could feel gravel rubbing along your palm.

Where the _fuck_?

You tried sitting up, you really did, but your legs felt even heavier than your arms and you didn’t manage the strength to pull your upper body off of the ground. At least your eyes opened- and they stared at a cold, grey ceiling. You guessed it was hardened cement- it looked uneven.

You don’t know how long it took for the feeling in your legs to come back but when it finally did, you praised whoever decided you could move again and dragged yourself up against the wall. There were no clear injuries- nothing sustained during a potential fall. You checked your head, hair, stomach, whatever places you could reach.

“Ah, sleeping beauty is awake. _Vamos a ver lo que puede ofrecer.._ ”

You turned to the sound of English and some kind of language you didn’t understand- in your field of view was a towering dude with a few armor pieces, but more importantly, a huge gun. You couldn’t distinguish a face, which was alarming as well.

When he was suddenly right up in your face, jamming the gun into your side, you groaned and resorted to a fetal position- you were not nearly awake enough for this. He then pulled you up by the arm- careless, and you were offended at the ragdoll treatment- and started walking out with you in tow.

Struggling was in vain.

You realized _that_ after trying to kick him, which earned you another machine gun jamming, and trying to claw at his arm, after which he punched you. Now you were feeling faint _and_ your nose was bleeding. Great combination. You’re trying to keep an eye on layout- but the halls are so dull and the same that it’s hard to keep track of where you’re going.

He abruptly stops in front of another cell, punching in a code. You expect to just be shoved in- instead, it seems like it’s only a connected room to the actual cell.

The actual cell where your edgelord friend is floating around looking positively murderous.

You could see that because of the nifty window between the two.

If it weren’t for the fact that he probably wasn’t killing _you_ in his head, you’d turn tail and run- random henchman attached or not.

“ _¡Oye, muerte! Hemos encontrado a tu novia. ¿Me pregunto qué tan fuerte es,eh?_ ”

Well, you didn’t understand jackshit of what he just said- except for ‘muerte’ which meant death, of course, and ‘pregunto’ kind of sounded like pregnant, which you were not- but you could make out a mocking tone that was clearly putting the assassin extraordinaire on edge.

“ _Como si me importara_ ,” the misty apparition lulls, voice seeping with anger. The low growls have an effect of their own on you, though, but you decide against indulging that thought.

“ _¿Ah, sí?_ ” the gentleman holding your arm mutters before violently pulling it behind your back and smacking you into the glass- and dear lord, it was some heavy glass. You had made a slight dent but what was more worrying was the sight of a bit of blood clinging to the window.  
“ _Qué tan fuerte o que, superando a un muñeco de trapo golpeado en marcha_ ,” the sarcastic tone of ‘death on mist’ doesn’t slip past you, but the headache makes it hard for things to focus.

You get thrown down- the floor is blurry but when it comes speeding at your face it’s pretty _goddamn_ clear- and he kicks your leg. As if that was going to do anything. You kick back and suddenly find the strength to raise yourself up on the window sill- knocking yourself back against the wall.

Well, you thought it was the wall.

It’s actually a button and it hurts your spine but the door that hadn’t been opened yet- the one you presume leads to Reaper- carefully slides open.  
As if on cue, your assailant has switched from psychopathic cockiness to shivering fear- you understand where he’s coming from, what with the black mist slowly pouring in and cascading around his feet.

 _"¿No es tan valiente ahora, verdad?_ ”

You’d moan and groan about how speaking English would be great, but it’s such a low growl accompanied by the mist slapping around mister ‘death pregnant’ that you can’t- watching how he gets thrown around is _painful_.

Or maybe that’s the punches you received talking.

He runs out tail between his legs, managing to close the door right before your friend can escape- and you are left in a small cell with the terrifying- terrifying whatever, really, at this point you didn’t really know.

Dragging yourself over to an actual piece of cold cemented wall, you sit down and measure the damage, wiping at your face, only to find that your nose was indeed still bleeding and that most of that blood was now on your sleeve.

 _Great_ , wonderful. This was going to be hard to wash out, and _you_ paid for these goddamn clothes yourself.

You don’t think he damaged any vitals: you could still move everything, your nose wasn’t bent in a funny way, nothing was swelling too much. You could only pray there wasn’t any internal bleeding, but since you weren’t coughing up any blood, you doubted it.

You moved into a straighter position so the leg that he kicked- multiple goddamn times- wasn’t directly on the ground while your good friend the Reaper was still just standing in the corridor, looking on.

“You think they did this on purpose?” you ask, wheezing a little considering he did hit your ribcage quite forcefully. The leathery menace didn’t budge.

“They’re a terrorist organization, I don’t think they need a reason to beat up a cop,” he mutters. You hum in agreement at first, until something clicks.

“Or they did it to see your reaction?”

“What?”

“They might think they can use me as leverage against you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Not really. Why haven’t they killed me yet?” you ask confidently, staring at the mask.

You don’t see him pause but he utters a vowel only to stop talking- which means you did have a point.

“Ever heard of hostages, officer?” he grunts, leaning back with his arms crossed.

“Ah yes, a random-ass person with a middle-class family, no rich friends, no excessive knowledge...what a good hostage I am.”

“Bad time to pull sarcasm,” he groans, and you expect a swift mist-punch, but nothing comes.

* * *

You can’t sleep. Besides the fact that you are kidnapped and hurt, you also have problems sleeping on the cold hard floor. When you open your eyes, you panic when you don’t see your cellmate immediately- shooting up into a sitting position and trying to make out the tall, bulky form but there’s nothing.

You want to call out to him but remember that if you do- they’ll probably use it against you. And they probably have this wired anyway.

Rubbing your eyes, you drag yourself over to the middle of the cell.

“Sit down and sleep.”

Well, he’s still here, and he has aptly tested your awareness by making a shiver run down your spine at the sudden noise.

“I can’t.”

“ _Boo-hoo_.”

“What was that about pulling sarcasm?” you have an eyebrow raised at his childish reaction, but you have to admit, this was kind of refreshing.

You know, not having him throw death threats at you.

* * *

Night passes slowly and agonizingly considering you don’t intend on having a heart to heart with misty Death and he sure as hell doesn’t intend to either. You both get slightly startled- you more than him, really- when the door slides open again and mister 'pregnant death' is back for round two- with his gun this time.

In rapid succession, he realizes that is a bad idea.

The gun shoots- blasting off Reaper’s arm, leaving only some protruding bones- but even though that is traumatizing enough by itself, the fact that it generates back is _worse_. You crawl back slightly, watching as he pummels the guard for shooting at him- when the unfortunate subject of his rage finally runs away again, you resume your breathing.

Until the mask turns.

“Bit late to be scared of me, don’t you think?” he mocks.

Unconsciously, you had raised yourself in a defensive position.

“I’m not-” you start but don’t get the time to finish, the assassin in front of you dissolving before he appears inches from your face, arms trapping your head and legs locked around yours.

You can feel several things: the fact that the man has iron thighs, and bulky arms- the mist tickling your cheeks and forehead threateningly- and worst of all, your cheeks heating up.

This is not the time to get aroused.

Especially if you didn’t even know what he looked like.

“ _Not scared_ ,” he hisses, the mist starting to feel like hand cupping your cheek- or is that your imagination?- “you think I don’t notice?”

The mist travels down and you hold back a scared whine- you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction. You bite your lip, staring back at the mask.

“You’re a lot of things, _mi dulce_ , including…” you shift your leg and try to break them free- to no avail, “ _obvious_.”

“I’m going to-” you pause when his claws rake over the skin of your neck, “have to write you up for sexual…” you stop breathing when the mask comes even closer, barely touching the tip of your nose, the slightest gasp escaping your mouth before the next word, “.. _harassment_.”

You hope he doesn’t see the fact that you’re positioning your fist so that you can punch him if need be- and you felt like it would most definitely _be_. In fact, the need might have already passed by ten times in a monster truck blaring the car horns and yelled at your conscious to just go for it- but you couldn’t.

You were scared.

And at the same time thinking about his thighs.

A weird combination, to say the least.

The breathy laugh he lets out at your statement mainly makes you wonder if that’s the laugh he pulls when he’s going to kill a victim- but he steps back, floating upright so he’s looking down at your rigid form.

You really don’t know what to make of this.

“Why didn’t you escape? You clearly have the upper hand,” you ask quietly, carefully. Still wondering if he’s just going to lash out and kill _you_ instead.

“I want to know why I’m here first.”

“Coolio, but I want to go back to my apartment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Vamos a ver lo que puede ofrecer.. = Let’s see what she can offer.  
> *¡Oye, muerte! Hemos encontrado a tu novia. ¿Me pregunto qué tan fuerte es,eh? = Hey, death! We've found your girlfriend. Wonder how sturdy she is, huh?  
> *Como si me importara = Like I care  
> *Ah, sí? = Oh really?  
> *Qué tan fuerte o que, superando a un muñeco de trapo golpeado en marcha. = How strong of you, beating a beaten-up ragdoll.  
> *¿No es tan valiente ahora,verdad? = Not so courageous anymore, are we?


	7. Chapter 7

You’ve got a hard time distinguishing between day and night- the cell hardly has any lighting and there’s certainly no windows either- considering ‘mealtimes’ consist of bread and water, once a day.

You assume.

Reaper doesn’t often open his mouth either, generally pacing in front of the window like the big menace he is pretending to be- you generally settle for sitting in a corner contemplating how you might get out. Contemplating how you’re going to explain this one to Riggs.

You wonder how she’s doing, but you refuse to get soft- weak- so you keep a stoic appearance as much as possible with a continuous growling stomach and a paler colour every time he glances at you.

When the door shoves open, there’s 4 men this time. You don’t bother getting up, and they clearly don’t care, talking Spanish to mist-personified as they actually cuff him. The lengths to which he’s going to find out why he’s here is hilarious- you distinctly remember him mouthing off every time you even mentioned taking him back to the police office.

But the cell is surprisingly lonely without black mist cascading and swirling on the ground.

* * *

He gets thrown in. It might have been minutes- it might have been hours, you don’t care- but you instinctively get worried by how he doesn’t get up on his feet immediately, scrambling to find his footing on all fours and groaning.

“What happened?” you croak- apparently not talking for this long had an effect on your already tired voice- but he doesn’t pay attention to you, finally managing to get into a sitting position with his legs spread and breath heavy.

The gashes on his chest and arms have the same purple lining that you’d already seen before when he’d visited your apartment- only now, the wounds were deeper. They weren’t bleeding, but they clearly put him in a world of hurt.

“I’m flattered,” he manages out, pushing himself to look at you -you assume, at least, because the mask tilts up slightly to your corner of the cell- “but stop staring.”

You click your tongue in annoyance but drag yourself closer- your leg had been getting better but the bruises still hurt if they hit a surface, so you avoided that with all your might- while pulling off the bloodstained, sweaty hoodie.

If he’s puzzled by your actions, he doesn’t show it.

You fiddle with the seams for a few moments before realizing they’re harder to tear than you’d thought- so you put it down in your lap momentarily to point at his gloves.

“Hand me one of those pointy claws, would you,” you mutter. He doesn’t. The mask is just looking at you, emotionless, waiting for some kind of explanation.

“I don’t have a first aid kit so this’ll have to do. It should be big enough to cover those wounds. Now hand me something sharp, dickbag.”

You can’t help getting angry- he was your only chance of escape, what with the fact that he was clearly a superhuman being and you were not. His hand shoots up again- slower, this time, because of the wounds- and curls around your neck but you don’t waver.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Clearly. I do need yours, because you are my only hope of escaping, tough guy.”

And with that, you wrap your hand around the armor on his forearm- pulling the hand back, surprisingly easy, and pulling off one of the claws so you can make quick work of the seams.

Well, quick.

It’s going faster than just pulling at it with your bare, non-pointy hands, but it still takes some time before you manage to tear it up into haphazard strips of makeshift bandaging.

You ignore his groans- if he’s going to be a baby, you’ll just let him be- while you wrap everything up as good as possible. The only problem is the wounds on his chest- your hoodie is not nearly big enough to go around this man’s huge chest, so you settle for just dabbing at them.

There’s a few hisses before he settles down.

“What are you, a scared animal?” you joke, even though none of this is funny and it might get you killed, but there’s something about helping the leathery menace that makes you realize the absurdity of all of this.

“I wouldn’t let you near an animal in a 100 years with how you’re doing this.”

Is that…?

Is he actually throwing a funny retort back at you?

You are stunned enough to stop your motions and your mouth falls open slightly.

“Your face will get stuck like that,  _ mi dulce _ ,” he quips again, again, and you can’t help the snort that escapes.

* * *

You’re finally drifting off to sleep and hitting that sweet, sweet feeling of giving your mind some rest when your friend’s groans turn louder and more in pain, the sound bouncing off the walls and into your ears, no matter how hard you try to ignore it.

You open your eyes and see him clutching at a part of his chest that isn’t torn open, claws digging in- you assume to focus his attention on that rather than on the pain he is in.

“Hey,” you whisper at first, not wanting to incite any rage, but he seems to not notice.

“Hey,” you say again, this time louder, already making your way over- before the mist errupts and engulfs his part of the cell almost completely, erratically moving back and forth as if he doesn’t quite know whether to hurt you or let you get close.

“Leave me-” he needs to pause for a deep breath, and you tentatively move forward a little more, mist now circling your wrist- “ _ alone _ .”

“I’ve told you before you’re my ticket out of here, so tell me what’s wrong.”

“No.”

If you’d had something to throw at him, you would’ve. You’re sure of it. You drag yourself closer a bit more- now the mist is getting really pissed off, if that was even possible, considering it’s  _ goddamn  _ mist- but you don’t falter.

“Tell me,” you hiss, finally reaching his leg- the only thing you can see at this point, the darkness in the cell combined with black fog making it hard to see anything that’s not close- and grabbing onto it. Supportively. Maybe a bit angry.

It twitches but he doesn’t pull it back, and you take that as a good sign, crawling closer. The groans are easier to hear now- the mist slightly thinning at your movement- and you can finally distinguish the mask.

“What is going on?” you whisper- as emphatically as you can in your tired, hungry, pissed off, hurt state- and a hand clutches your shoulder tight, the claws digging in slightly.

You hope they weren’t tearing your skin.

“Nothing,” he groans, but you quickly make out that it just means he feels like not telling you even though something is most definitely going on. Against your better judgement- your only judgement, seeing as there is no one to help you determine what to do in this situation- you move the hand on his leg to the side of his face, carefully.

“It’s ok,” you start, trying to get him to calm down, if possible, “just breathe.”

No response except heavier, clearer breathing. 

“We’re going to get out of here,” you mutter- hardly believing it yourself at this point, really, but that didn’t matter.

“Eyes up here, friend,” you say when you notice the mask trails down to the ground, but you pull it back up to look at your face- “eyes up here. You’re going to be fine.”

“You don’t know shit,” he groans, and he’s right, he’s absolutely fucking right.

But you weren’t going to just let that be the end of it.

“Very true, but we’re stuck with each other so I’ll have to do, death mist.”

You can’t help the nickname but you sit yourself down- the hand on your shoulder loosens slightly.

“And like hell I am staying here,” you continue, “there’s not even any room service.”

You didn’t expect the joke to help, but when he lets out the tiniest chuckle- just a syllable, not much- you can’t help the grin on your face.

“Though it is better than that one time I stayed at this dingy motel because I was a fucking cheapskate,” you continue- talking is good, talking will help. Even if he probably doesn’t care about you or your past at all. You don’t really know what else to talk about but yourself.

“Really?” you can’t help beaming at the fact that he’s responding, even though he needs to take a deep breath and the claws tighten slightly again- for a split second, “how so, miss officer?”

“No insects here,” you accompany your statement with a pointing finger and a slight wink, and you find that you don’t have to hold the mask up anymore for him to look at you.

“I see,” Reaper groans, dragging himself up slightly so he’s towering over you again, but he doesn’t let go of your shoulder- for support, maybe?

“How about we time out and take a nap, huh?” you propose quietly, carefully looking up.

Some time passes.

“At last, you actually come up with a good idea,” he taunts, still breathing heavily and though he lets you move to his side so you can rest up against the wall, the hand doesn’t let go of your shoulder.   
You decide not to mention it.

* * *

You wake up with an aching neck and your head in a funny position against the wall- snorting slightly when you leave your dream world for the stinky cell. Reaper’s left your side- though you can still feel the claw marks so it couldn’t have been terribly long, pacing in front of the window again.

“I’m getting out today, _policía_.”

You stretch for a second and get up softly, moving your neck in the hopes that it’ll stop hurting. 

“How about you make that we?” you propose, rubbing the sleep from your eyes- god, it had been so nice to rest. 

“You have no weapons. We’re up against an entire base of terrorists.”

He stops pacing to move in front of you, just standing with his arms crossed. 

“Very true, but I would also like to get out.”

He’s quiet when he turns almost see-through completely, except for his upper body- scared of being left to rot here, you clamp your hand around his wrist.

“Don’t leave-” you whisper, nails digging into his skin- or, well, what should be his skin. 

It surprised him mainly because of the sheer force you were using, as well as the fact that such a pathetic sentence was said with zero pathetic feelings. It was a confident growl, urging him to not go because it might be bad for him or something, rather than because you’d be alone.

“Why?” he growls back at you, and you dig your nails deeper.

It feels funny because instead of skin, you feel air swirling around your hands and fingers.

“Because, smart ass, if you leave they’ll come back. And I’d much rather not die here.”

“Don’t worry, _policía_ , I owe you one,” he starts as his hand wraps around yours, carefully pulling it off of his wrist- you don’t miss the fact that he seems to work hard not to get his claws digging again.

“Wait until I’m back.”

Against your better judgement, you decide to listen, watching as he slips under the cracks of the doors and away into the hallway.


	8. Chapter 8

The hallway was quiet. Eerily quiet, even- as your hand clings to your upper arm, knuckles turning white, biting your lip.

You are positive it’s been too long since something happened, especially considering he just up and left. Now- your head was clearing up and there were several question marks.

In particular: did he just storm an enemy base without guns? If so, he could be dead right now. Dead and leaving you here. Even though that seems highly unlikely since they’d kill you if he’s dead, you guess.

And he owes you one. You don’t know why he owes you anything: he’s very clearly not the empathic or generous guy and even though you had been supporting him through his  _ episode _ that hardly seemed reason enough to owe you anything.

Yet the promise of having such a threat on your good side was mildly comforting and warming to your cheeks.

There’s several cracks that make you stumble away from the door and when you manage to look at it, there’s several dents in the doorway. 

Big dents.

You don’t get time to think when the door is smashed open and in a fight-or-flight response you tense and pinch your arm harder- nails digging deep enough to draw blood until you see the familiar face of your misty friend.

Well, familiar  _ mask _ .

At this point, it was entirely possible he didn’t even have a face.

“I’ve taken care of this hallway,” he grunts, “there’s about 5 left.”

“Hallways or people?” you ask quickly, before remembering that is probably a silly question and he probably means hallways. He proves that by having the mask stare blankly at you, as it does every time.

“Ok, dumb question,” you admit quietly, hand finally releasing its grip on your arm as you hum to traverse the short silence between the both of you.

“So,” he turns when you speak again, taking a pair of huge shotguns out of the back of his coat- how he does it, you don’t know, you don’t care- “are our...uh...prospects of getting out good, or should I start panicking?”

He hums out a deep, rich sound but doesn’t grace you with eye contact- or mask contact, really- as he steps into the doorway again.

“You’re the backup plan,  _ mujer _ , so I wouldn’t panic if I were you.”

You don’t have time to react before he leaves again.

* * *

Where a relatively short amount of time passed during his first leave of the cell, there was now a much longer pause. He’d left with mist swaying through the air and it had lingered for a short while before you started to prepare  _ something-  _ anything.

You went from pacing through the room at least 6 times to exploring the small room between the cell and the hallway. Unfortunately, nothing but buttons and wires was around here. You’d preferred to find a gun or at least some kind of stick.

It had been a few years and you could hardly recall how exactly to defend yourself without a weapon.

You would call it deciding against your better judgement, but in fact you could easily determine that staying in one place was worse, carefully moving back against one side of the wall so you could peek into the hallway he had supposedly cleared. Indeed, there were nothing but bodies.    
Not many- you could see a few, roughly 5- which meant he’d still have to face the brunt of the force either now or later, but it did make you feel confident enough to carefully step out and tiptoe to the nearest body, leg still aching slightly but not enough to hinder your movement.

You were quieter than you could’ve hoped you’d be and you realized it was because you were holding your breath. 

He had several weapons on him- machine gun, too heavy, you’d only fuck around carrying that-, as well as a taser and a shotgun.

Shotgun and tazer it is.

Well, it was the both of them until you realized your pants hardly had any pockets and because you’d discarded your hoodie during previous meltdowns of misty ghosts, that was not an option either. Dejected, you drop the taser back on the ground and carefully continue your way down. 

The hallway was much like the cell- cold and  _ too  _ clean- if you didn’t count the blood splatters your friend had left. You could see the mist trail on at the end of the hallway, going to the left. That probably meant you were going to go left as well.

It hardly seemed smart to not go to where he is right now.

The closer you got, the clearer the sounds of his shooting became and every once in awhile you’d hear a stifled scream or surprised yelp. For a prisoner of theirs escaping, there was hardly any panic around the facility. You would’ve expected alarms-

The blaring of a sirene interrupted your thoughts and you loudly cursed your mind for thinking that before running.

Running quite blindly until you saw a big lump of black leather that was also acknowledging you as you both turned and ran into an open door. He’d already cleared this room- one scientist was lifeless on the ground- and out of habit you started shoving tables and chairs to barricade yourself in.

It amused Reaper, but he would never admit that.

“We have to get out, not further in,” he lulls as you take a slight rest from hauling furniture, and you turn to him with a layer of sweat glistening on your forehead and your breath slightly uneven.

“Yeah but I don’t want whoever is summoned by that alarm to come in here,” you reply curtly before checking the gun.

Ah yes.

No ammo left, of course, because why would you have to be able to defend yourself?

You curse fate a second time and don’t mind the fact that you are not alone in this room as you catapult the gun against a mirror, glass shattering.

It was mildly satisfying, at least.

“Productive,” Reaper quips as he heaves a pair of heavy shotguns out of his coat- stashed in his butthole, for all you care, you are glad he is armed at least. He’s proven more than once that he’s proficient with them.

“Got one of those to spare?” you point at the heavy gun- no doubt you’d probably need to support it with both arms to fire well- and his silence is a clear no.

The alarm becomes background noise as the door starts shaking and cracking- clearly force is being used to open it and you are glad the heavy medical table you stashed against it is holding it back from collapsing in your direction. It proves futile, though, as there is the sudden sound of gunshots roaring and bullets fly through and lodge themselves into the thick wall to your left. 

Your finger twitches and you subconsciously take a step back once the table starts moving- being shoved away as the door splinters and more bullets rain down.

You don’t expect your misty bud to slightly lean more your way so his armored shoulder provides the slightest cover. He responds swiftly with his own rounds of shotgun bullets flying through the door- you can hear screaming as he steps forward slowly. The closer he gets, the more you can see the sheer impact of the close range weapon as it demolishes the door further and the screams dulling the gunshot noises die down.

He only gives a nod before he exits again, leaving you to drag the table away and follow in his footsteps. 

Well, follow in his footsteps but still waiting a good minute because he is the one that can take care of enemies and you are still a sitting duck.

When you step over pieces of the door and scattered bodies- you make a quick note of how the wounds from Reaper’s guns are gory and pretty terrifying but move on to your escape- it takes you a while to notice that the gunshot noises have died down completely and there’s no trace of Reaper anywhere.

Anywhere but the trail of mist and purple gleaming blood trailing further down towards the way out.

You follow it carefully, still taking time to check behind your back every so often should a new assault come- but the facility is eerily quiet once you notice the lump of man against the wall.

This time it’s clear he’s been hit- his clawed hand is covering his side but you aren’t blind- and if that wouldn’t have given it away, his groaning certainly would have.

You lean down carefully to make sure you don’t startle him and get yourself killed in a freak accident- if you could call it that, really, after all you were kind of enemies? Sort of?- and try to pry his hand off so you can provide some first aid, but it doesn’t budge.

Even though he is clearly out cold by now.

Stubbornness lives on whether or not his lights are out, you guess.

Standing back up, you give into the urge to pace back and forth while contemplating your next move.

* * *

He was heavy. Logical, considering he was quite a large man and had a lot of muscle on him, but nonetheless it only made your work harder. You looked through the hallway and then back at the lump of mercenary in the corner.

You guess you had no choice.

You carefully hook your arms under his, lifting with as much strength you could muster until he was resting on your back.

“What are you doing?” he hisses beside your ear, but you decide to ignore it. You’d been slightly startled because you thought he was out cold, but at this point you wanted to get out.

The first few steps are a battle for balance but after a while you get the hang of it, dragging him through the hallways. The metal tips of his boots are scratching on the tile floor and his ammunition is awkwardly poking your spine, but you supposed mild discomfort now was better than leaving him here.

He’s quiet, at least, and when you feel his head slack forward you realize he’s fainted again. Well, as long as he’s breathing, it’s fine.

When you finally manage to shuffle through the main entrance, what you find is two women, waiting. They were talking but stop when they see you: a cop uniform poking out from under layers and layers of black leather.

The skinny one of the two rushes to your side first, but you notice that she steers clear from even touching Reaper.

“This was not according to the assignment, was it, Zarya?” she shouts at the other woman, studying your pained expression. You know that at this point your eyebrows and lips have contorted into an expression of will but at the same time pain.

“It is not. Who is that?” 

You realize that the woman with the heavy accent- Polish, perhaps? Maybe Russian?- is talking about you. She’s coming closer at well, and she’s not scared to lift one of Reaper’s arms so she can see your face.

You mutter your name, position and police station and their eyebrows raise.

“We’ll take over from here, love. He probably needs medical care.”

Zarya- you think that’s what she called the bigger, stronger woman- takes over, carefully lifting his weight onto her back and you are still slouching, but at least you can see properly again. Your shoulders are blocked and your neck is hurting but it doesn’t feel as bad as you think.

“Who are you?” you ask- you reckon nobody menacing or they would’ve shot you on sight at this point- but it still is peculiar they are just here.

“Overwatch, love,” the brown-haired babe smiles before they leave.

Overwatch.

Of course, on top of ghoul-like entities not leaving you alone, there’d be a destroyed organization resurfacing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BACK! I'm ALIVE! I am also very sorry. Life has been very busy what with college and my internship/student job and then a con I'm organizing and my art I'm working on. Busy shit, man. But I'll be working on all my ongoing stories! In fact I have a few more planned but I first want to finish this one and Incapacitated at least, before I start a new one. 
> 
> Once again, very sorry, but I hope you guys still like this! <3


	9. Chapter 9

Soon after getting out, everything quickly became a blur- the two women, Overwatch, how they got you back to the police station in one piece- because you couldn’t help but let the question of ‘why is a slightly unhinged evil dude being picked up by Overwatch members’.

That, and how did they know your location?

Either way, exhaustion and malnourishment caught up soon after and the hospital only released you after two weeks- after making sure Riggs would take care of you. 

Which raised an entirely different matter of explaining to her what exactly happened without being too loose-lipped. You were left in the office to do some plain administration for the next few weeks until the doctor deemed you ready to go into the field again, and Riggs had a lot of leftover administration, apparently.

“Hey, honey,” Riggs shouts from her office, beckoning you over, “come here for a second.”

You slump over and take a seat in her office, expecting another lecture about the kidnapping and the strychnine and whatnot- but she just prints some files and throws them at you.

“Someone asked for you to play their bodyguard.”

Her tone is weird- like she doesn’t think the request is viable or trustworthy, but has to give it to you because you are an officer- and you raise an eyebrow.

“I thought there were companies for that?” you ask and her face agrees with you, but her mouth speaks a different story.

“They heard how you escaped death by Reaper quite a few times. Something about it smells funny, though,” she ponders and you hum in agreement.

“Only way to find out is to go,” you shrug. 

“I don’t want you kidnapped again. Last time was too much-”

She stops her sentence before her voice cracks and you leave her to regain her composure so she can continue without shame.

“We could station back-up. Have me rigged so you’re up to date on what’s going on. I’m hard to get rid of,” you smile, but it’s half-hearted and you don’t know if it’s the right way to soothe her worries.

“I guess. Jonesy and Banks are good snipers if need be, I guess. I just…”

She takes another long break.

“This is not a matter of losing an officer, but a friend. I feel like I’m sending you to your death. If not now, then eventually.”

Her head is burried in her hands and you know she’s crying quietly- you’d known each other so long it was hard to ignore the vital signs.

“I chose this job. If I think something’s too dangerous, you’ll hear. There’s still loads of strychnine somewhere in the city.”

It takes another few silent moments before she sighs and nods, sending you off with a big bear hug.

* * *

You figured you’d dress casually for the meeting- no need to wear your police shirt or vest, and your hoodie could hide the microphone a lot better. 

The meeting place was the first warning sign. A big, gaudy mansion with plenty of bodyguards stationed all around- at the edge of the city, as well, out of sight- which easily brought up the question of why they needed you in the first place again. You’re led through halls and up stairs by two of the burly men in suits- your only relief is how well Jonesy knew the area and stationed himself and Banks so they had eyes and ears everywhere- into a dining room of sorts.

Big table filled with papers and at the head of it is the exact opposite of a supervillain- pretty face, strong jawline, welcoming smile and warm eyes.

But damn, did that ring even more alarm bells. Why were all these papers here?

“What a pleasure to meet you! We’ve heard a lot about you from several sources. Take a seat, please!” he warmly says, voice sweet as honey. 

You, however, don’t budge from your spot while the two guards leave and close the door.

“Forgive my straightforwardness, but why am I here? It seems to me you have plenty of bodyguards already.”

There’s a flash of coyness in his eyes and he stands up so he can walk towards you- posture saying welcome, expression screaming aggressive. 

“I thought you might ask that question too soon. You see, my sources-”

“Who are your sources?” you interject quickly- a hint of venom in your voice at the way he is trying to lead this narrative.

“No one of importance. Well-” he pauses and fiddles with some paintings on the wall, “they are important alright, but your dear friend Reaper killed them all.”

If there were alarm bells before, there were now sirens and flashing lights going off.

“Did he?” you ask cautiously- is this a psychopath? What can you say? What’s the easiest way to get out of here, as well- the window, perhaps? Might break your legs, though.

“Yes, you see, we had him where we wanted him. You, unfortunately, were there as well. But then you had to escape.  _ Both  _ of you.”

You thought he was the opposite of a supervillain but with the tangent he was going off on, he might as well come straight out of a Bond film.

“So sorry about that,” you fake concern and step back slightly so you can survey the room a bit better. There’s no escape routes here.

“So I’ll just kill you now, and then find Reaper and get this business dealt with.”

You pop your lips and give him a sweet smile.

“Didn’t you learn you shouldn’t speak about plans you haven’t executed?” you grin, cracking your knuckles as you see him take a gun out of a hidden safe.

There’s no more talk after that- he’s not a trained shot and it’s painfully obvious with how you can dodge just by determining the trajectory of his arm- but it gives you the opportunity to dive and tackle him. The air escapes from his lungs and while you wrestle him down, he’s spouting nonsense until he lets oud a bloodcurdling scream.

“GUARDS!  _ GUARDA _ !”

He repeats it and repeats it, but it takes a long time before you hear the door open- you turn as a shiver travels up your spine considering you’re wide open to attacks right now- but none happen.

When you turn completely you feel like crying happy tears at the sight of edgy black leather and sharp claws- your assailant is expecting you to let go and struggles but you give a sharp tug at his arm to remind him that you are in control of the situation.

“If it isn’t my favourite police officer,” Reaper drawls out, hovering closer, “I see you’ve also been invited to this party.”

“Lame party. Where are the bodyguards?” you ask, but you’re pretty sure the answer is ‘dead’ and ‘sprawled all around the mansion’. He throws you a pair of cuffs and you quickly cuff your ‘victim’, letting him crawl to the side while you keep your eyes fixed on the mercenary.

“Incapacitated.”

As expected.

“It’s good to see you’re alright,” you smile- uncharacteristically considering the circumstances and you would’ve stopped it from slipping past your lips but it’s the truth- and the mask perks up.

“You two should be  _ dead- _ ”

Reaper shuts the guy up with a swift boot-to-face.

“You’re ruining a moment here,  _ hijo de puta _ , the lady was just going to confess to liking me.”

It’s said teasingly and with a mocking venom dripping from his lips but you can’t help turning red slightly at the idea.

You haven’t forgotten those iron thighs.

“I’m serious-” you start, hearing Jonesy and Banks and police cars flooding the vicinity, “you’re a good man. Probably should get out of here, now, though.”

He pauses slightly before disappearing and reappearing again- this time too close- mask lifted so you can see his scraggly goatee and battered skin.

“Del mismo modo, cariño,” he whispers almost inaudibly as he leaves the softest of kisses on your forehead, before leaving through a window.

* * *

Explaining the whole thing to Riggs and Jonesy and Banks and quite frankly the entire police station was tiring, but worth it, considering soon after they found the gigantic stash of strychnine.

You’d been given a short vacation for once again almost being maimed- Riggs was too nice- and had settled for spending most of your time at home, relaxing. Pondering your career. Thinking about mercenaries kissing your forehead while whispering sweet nothings-

No. 

No, no, no.

He probably wasn’t even human, for fuck’s sake. 

You couldn’t think about him or his iron thighs any more than you’d already had.

Even though, you know, you spent almost every quiet moment remembering the stupidest things like his silky voice and those damn arms.

* * *

You were reading some old magazines about Overwatch- and instinctively remembered the raging crush you had on both Strike Commander Morrison and Ana Amari- when there was suddenly a knock on the door. Assuming it was Riggs- she was supposed to drop by one of these days with one of your pots she’d borrowed- you just sat up a bit straighter and turned to the door.

“Door’s open, you can come in.”

There was no reply but you could hear someone opening and closing it.

“Just put the pot back in the kitchen, would you?” you yelled again, really not feeling like getting up. Knowing Riggs she’d probably have brought a bottle of wine so you didn’t have to worry about getting her a drink.

“What do I do when I don’t have a pot to put back?”

You jump when the voice you hear is not Riggs’ high-pitched one but the deep sultry tones of a certain mercenary. You turn to the source and the look on your face is probably hilarious- a mix between disbelief and relief.

There he is, not wearing his trademark leather or mask this time, but just a pair of jeans and a loose hoodie that still hides most of his face in the lighting of your room. His voice is not impeded by the mask either, but you’d recognize it anywhere. You don’t really know what to do- do you offer him a drink? Some snacks? What’s the proper etiquette for meeting up with someone that you got locked up with for several days?

“Your face will get stuck like that,  _ cariño _ ,” he laughs as he steps into the room properly, sitting down on the couch with you. He keeps a respectable distance- he’s on one end and you are on the other.

“I just hardly recognize you without all the leather and edge, is all,” you retort, but a smile is blooming on your face, “am I going to see a face reveal?”

The hoodie turns to you, and you can already make out a dark brown goatee and strongly defined chin. You can see that skin has gotten lighter on some places where there’s scars- and there’s also a small hole where black mist is hanging around.

“What makes you think you deserve to see this work of art?” he taunts, but you can see the corners of his lips curl up and you snort.

“Considering I saved your ass, I think it’s the least you could do.”

He carefully wraps his fingers around the fabric of the hoodie- he has strong, big fingers- and pulls it back. The first thing that catches your eye is his hair- you’d somehow always imagined he had none, but he has buzzed sides and a mop of messy strands at the top. There’s small scars all over his face, and his eyes are a weird colour- black sclera and red irises- but somehow it makes him look good.

Damn.

You hum approvingly, continuing to inspect it, finally being able to give the sass a face. While you do, he sits down a bit more casually, throwing an arm over the couch and raising his leg to put his foot on his knee.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” you finally note, giving him a toothy grin, “want something to drink?”

“What, suddenly we’re friends?” he jokes and you laugh.

“I think we’re way past asking that question.”

While you get him a beer- cooled, of course- and you grab yourself a bottle of water, you suddenly realize something.

“Hey, so,” you start when entering the room and you notice he’s carefully inspecting the decorations and photos littered across the walls, “now that all that leather and anger is gone I don’t think I can call you Reaper anymore.”

He grunts in agreement, a low rumble that makes his lips pout slightly and the mist at the bottom of his cheek swirls. 

“Gabriel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still very much working on all of these, just very slowly. :D 
> 
> Thanks for the support, as always! Got some other fun stories planned as well.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *déjame = let me
> 
> or at least that's what google translate says

“Gabriel.”

You let the sound roll around in your mouth when you pronounced it, kind of baffled that such a name belonged to someone who’d previously been everything but angelic. 

“Yes, that’s what I said,” he quips, leaning in slightly- you give him a soft kick with your foot before you sit yourself down next to him. The difference between composure back when you first met and are sitting now is immense; you never thought the man was capable of relaxing.

“So, what’re you going to do now? Now that you’re...not doing the killing thing anymore?” you mused, eyes darting over to his until he looked back. Suddenly the water bottle was incredibly interesting. He hums in deep thought for a few seconds and takes another sip- you lean back and feel his fingertips brush your shoulder.

You should get a bigger couch.

“I could tell you but then I’d probably have to kill you.”

The ease with which he says it makes you turn to him with wide eyes- some water escaping your mouth because you forgot to swallow. You expect him to debunk that statement- tell you he’s joking, or maybe give a heartfelt chuckle- but he only leans in close enough for your noses to brush together.

It’s a careful few moments that you’re locked into position staring at his eyes- your form is rigid and unmoving even though he’s close enough for you to be incredibly embarrassed.

“I’m joking, _idiota_ ,” he snorts, “but it is kind of secretive right now.”

You let out a relieved exhale but notice he doesn’t move back- and you have to admit you don’t really feel like moving away, either. 

“I see,” you manage to get out, “but you’re doing well, right?”

One bushy, black-haired eyebrow shoots up at your soft tone and he gives a curt nod.

“Yeah.”

* * *

He left your apartment soon after and life resumed as normal, once again.

As normal as it could be with your sprouting crush on a demon-edgelord-turned-not-so-edgy and the police headquarters still slightly in shambles.

Weeks pass at a relatively normal pace and you are mainly focused on helping Ridge out with the inner workings of your town after the discovery that terrorists were using it to store copious amounts of deadly poison.

When you received a notice at work from Riggs that a special committee was going to be visiting, you expected it to be the run-of-the-mill kind of procedure: fake smiles, weak handshakes, some wine and snacks and lots of fake laughing. It was a waste you had to get out your special uniform- black knee-high pencil skirt, pumps, a silly hat and a shirt that hadn’t gotten blood on it somehow- for it.

“You know I hate receiving committees,” you told her as she stacked away some files. The boss-position really fit her. She needed some work- she was still a tad younger than you, after all- but she did it as perfectly as she could.

“Banks did it last time,” she smiles, straightening her hair and your tie, “and free wine! Let that be a motivator.”

It was, it really was. 

It was your only motivator.

Riggs walked into the office room first- you’d cleared up the bigger conference room in the building for this- and you could hear her all polite and cheerful- talking to whoever was in there. Carefully, you entered as well, trying to make your heels be more quiet.

You nearly stumbled and fell when you saw Gabriel, dressed to the nines in a slick suit together with a friend of his- not quite bad to look at either- and a gorilla.

The gorilla, you knew, was Winston. Winston the space gorilla that had been a key part of Overwatch. He’s the first to greet you, extending his paw as you gladly take it.

“We’ve heard a lot about you! Your boss wouldn’t stop talking about you,” he says, and you shoot a look at Riggs. 

“Wonderful!” you reply with a smile, before turning to Riggs with a terse tone, “what in the name of fuck is going on?”

She gives you an elbow to your side and then excuses the both of you to go back outside for a second- both men are amused but Winston is positively startled.

You guess that’s normal when you greet someone and then leave immediately.

“That’s no way to say hello to someone,” Riggs notes dryly, crossing her arms.

“Duly noted,  _ mom _ , but why’s the gorilla from Overwatch here?”

“Not only the gorilla. The blonde is Jack Morrison, the black-haired one is Gabriel Reyes.”

You feel a clock tick in your head before the realization sinks in.

Of course it made sense that he had been a part of Overwatch if they’d come to pick him up, that time after your captivity!

“Well, fucking hell, give me a warning next time, will you?” you whisper.

“Also, weren’t they supposed to be dead?” you add in after a few seconds when you remember how Overwatch headquarters exploded years ago.

“You’re the one that got all friendly with Reyes, ask him,” she shrugs with a sly smile and you’d strangle her if she wasn’t such a good friend. Defeated, you open the door again and meet the three with a pensive expression.

“My boss just informed me what’s going on,” you say calmly, “and forgive my...well...statement, I guess? But why are former Overwatch members in our small police station?”

Gabriel’s grinning at you and it’s both heartwarming and infuriating at the same time because he knows something you don’t. 

“Gabriel informed us you’d been a key part in discovering the brewing problems over here,” the blonde takes the lead and his baby blue eyes shimmer while he takes a military pose, “we wanted to formally thank you.”

“And ask if you’d like to visit our formal re-institution,” Winston adds quickly while Riggs is now in the room again and closing the door. She stands beside you and wears her business smile.

“We’d love to!” she turns to you, “why don’t you go show mr. Reyes around?” 

Her obvious wink turns your ears red and you look at Gabriel, who’s also wearing a smirk.

“I’d love to,” you note, motioning for him to follow you while you get out of the conference room.

* * *

He wastes no time- hiking up the pencil skirt and running his hand along your thigh- while he bites and kisses your neck. You’d barely made it to the end of the hallway before he cornered you behind a stack of boxes- filled with paperwork.

“Gabriel-”

He stops kissing- his hands pausing in their frenzy- to look at you.

“You don’t want this?”

His face is serious and you appreciate the gesture, giving him a breathless smile, trying to focus.

“No, I do, I really do, I just-”

“Just let me spoil you.”

That’s all you need to continue- giving him a nod as he spreads your legs by placing his inbetween- lifting you up against the wall with a quick shove and muttering sweet nothings by your ear.

You’re busy unbuttoning your shirt as one of his hands travels back to your thigh, rubbing circles so close to your sex you feel like slapping him if he doesn’t move it along- but then again, you don’t really know if you can hurt him. Once your shirt is open- you were glad you decided to wear the bra that opens at the front, today- you move a hand to your mouth to prevent any noises from slipping out. You could see him grin- the corners of his mouth were in the corner of your sight- and slip a hand under the fabric of your panties.

“You’re not going to let me hear you moan for me? How cute,” he laughs against your jaw, the sounds making you giddy. He leaves sloppy kisses- you have a feeling he is somehow approaching this very relaxed compared to how you imagined him doing it.

Not that you’d say that, because then you’d confess to  _ imagining  _ it. His kisses go down to your neck and he scrapes his teeth every once in awhile, pressing his fingers against your clit and you let out a moan before realizing you are  _ at work _ . If Riggs saw you like this she would  _ murder  _ you. He must’ve noticed the widening of your eyes and the shaky arch of your back because he stops rubbing your folds and leans in so his mouth is next to your ear.

“ _ Mi amor, déjame _ -”

“I’m glad you’re getting along so well, but we gotta go, Reyes.”

Your knee jerks up into Gabriel’s crotch because of a defense mechanism you’d never quite had to try yet- and he lets out a pained groan while leaning forward.

You don’t care because you’re too busy pulling your skirt down and closing your shirt so Jack  _ fucking  _ Morrison doesn’t see your bra. Winston is a few feet away, staring awkwardly at the wall.

Huffing and puffing, you groan: “please don’t tell Riggs. I don’t want to visit your re-institution in a coffin.”


	11. Chapter 11

They hadn’t told Riggs- and in retrospect, how could they, really? They were on their way out- and life resumed as normal for only a few days before you’d gotten a letter in the mail with an invitation for the reinstitution party of Overwatch.

Only a few minutes later Riggs had called and asked you whether or not you’d received it- when your answer was positive you started making plans for travelling there together with her and her husband. It was apparently going to happen at the recently rebuilt base in Gibraltar- unlocking an interesting conversation with Riggs about where Gibraltar was, exactly, and how you were going to get there- but luckily they’d provided helicopters to drop you off.

It was, all in all, even before you had arrived, clear that it was going to be maybe a tad too fancy for what you were used to. 

The trip there was incredibly pleasant, though- you’d all taken a week off work and Riggs and her hubby had dropped off the kids at the grandparents- you’d done some sightseeing in Seville and Málaga, taking the utmost care to fully relax. 

It’s when you were all in the helicopter, dressed to the nines in an attempt to blend in- that stress kicked in. 

“I really wonder what it’s going to be like,” John, Riggs’ partner, comments while looking out the window. You nod.

“Fancy-schmancy reception, I’m guessing. I didn’t really get invited to Overwatch parties back in their glory days,” you remark.

“None of us. It’s thanks to you that we’re sitting in this helicopter,” Riggs smiles at you and you both reach out for a fistbump.

“I hope they have schrimp,” John says- watering at the mouth, and you snort.

“Honey, please don’t embarrass me,” Riggs is pouting but there’s a clear affection in her eyes.

* * *

The party is huge- and that was probably an understatement. Every single room in the base was decorated and had the music streaming through- you’d been lucky to find the main ‘party room’ by following what seemed to be a person that looked a lot like some kind of president.

You tried to tell yourself that surely, this would be the only world leader here.

Instead, once you’d entered, you found that almost everyone either had military decorations or ball gowns that cost more than what you’ve earned your entire life.

Riggs and her husband quickly were enjoying the music and each others company- dancing quietly in one of the corners. You’d taken to the buffet, mainly just looking at the dancefloor.

Parties were hard if there was no one you knew.

“It’s good to see you again.”

You recognize that voice- it’s the voice of the blue-eyed silver fox that was apparently Jack Morrison in the flesh. You turn with a smile before you remember the last time he saw you- getting handsy with Gabriel and in various states of undress.

“Uh, yeah. Nice…” you pause, looking him over and then turning to the party, “nice party.”

“Gabriel is currently busy doing the formal rounds of the officials that are visiting. He’ll find you after, I’m sure,” Morrison smiles and his scars move in time with the motion. You give a nod.

“It’s fine, I’m more worried about how you saw us last time you...well, saw me,” you mutter, lifting a glass of sparkling champagne off of a tray that passes by and downing it swiftly.

“He’s always been rather nonchalant when it came to stuff like that,” he replies.

You don’t notice it at first but then it starts downing on you that he said it with a strange certainty. Not like how a roommate would talk about his friends sexcapades but more like how a subject of said sexcapades would talk about it.

“You and edgelord dated?!” you exclaim- because of your loud tone you decide to use a nickname. You never know if it is alright to exclaim such information- especially with how Overwatch disbanded and how Gabriel clearly didn’t start out on their side afterwards.

“Yes,” his face softens and you see that sparkle in his eyes again, “long ago. I’m glad you found him. He’s got a thing for uniforms.”

“You’re okay with it?” you still can’t quite believe it- he turns and smiles.

“Of course. Would you like to share a dance?”

You look back and forth a few times between the handsome gentleman and the bustling dance floor- you’re a bit doubtful if you should go ahead and do this but on the other hand...when are you going to get another opportunity to party like this?

“Sure! I’d love to,” you smile as he whisks you away with an outstretched hand you take. You don’t quite know where to leave your hands during the dance so you settle for his hand and his shoulder- he’s luckily moving slow enough so you don’t find yourself tripping over your heels.

“So, you and Gabriel, huh?” you smile, looking him over.

“Yeah. Long ago, though. Good thing he’s calmed down a bit,” he replies with smiling eyes, and you grin remembering how much of a dickbag he was in the beginning.

“Yes, he had quite the stick up his ass, didn’t he? Glad that disappeared.”

It leaves you two with another silence- not awkward, though, as you’re just enjoying a bit of simple, human interaction.

“Enjoying shit-talking me, cariño?” you suddenly hear from behind you- Morrison is still grinning and coming to a halt as he twirls you over to Gabriel.

“I feel like I have the right to do that,” you taunt, putting your hand on his shoulder and motioning for him to raise his other arm so you can copy the pose you learned from Morrison- but he’ll have none of that. He firmly wraps an arm around your waist and starts leading you away from the dance floor after giving a suggestive wink to the former Strike Commander. You follow his brisk steps up some stairs and into one of the darker corners of the base where there’s not many people walking around- probably  _ because  _ it was a darker and more damp corner.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but the party’s going on...not over here,” you remark with a smile, while he just shoots you a sly grin. It’s clear that there’s a lot less stray mist swirling around- he’s still got patches of what you guess is dead skin, but he looks vibrant. Even the red irises look full of life. 

“Maybe I want to enjoy a different sight,” he grins into your ear- voice low and tempting. You turn out of his embrace and into the wall- your back leaning against it with the full intent of highlighting your breasts.

“Well, then, as long as we’re sure there’s no intruders this-”

He stops you with a kiss- needy and raw and kind of all over the place as his hands drag the hem of your dress up to your waist, leaving you immediately and easily exposed.

“The only words I want to hear from those pretty lips is begging,” he grins as one hand massages your breast- you give a surprised moan when his other hand immediately starts rubbing your folds through your panties.

You quickly feel the heat build up and when he pushes the fabric aside to insert one finger in a fluid motion, you can hear how wet you are even when the music is still in the background. 

He’s rubbing his erection up against your thigh while he bites and nips at your neck, the hand kneading your breast moving around to pull you closer.

“Reyes?”

Both of you give an annoyed sigh and turn to find a two men in a suit- one with a cowboy hat, the other with a furious blush- looking at you two, surprised.

“Jesse, you little shit-”

“Hey, we’re just thinkin’ o’ the same thing. Let’s go find another spot, pumpkin.”

They quickly scurry away- you see ‘Jesse’ grabbing the other man’s ass before they’re out of sight.

“We’ll have to figure out why people keep interrupting us,” you note, seductively dragging your hand down until you’re cupping his length through his pants. He gives a low groan.

“I don’t care if the entire world sees as long as you let me finish.”

It’s worded as a request but is more of a promise- or an order, whatever, it got you riled up and hot- as he continues again, “regardless of who’s watching.”

You blush at the implication of him not stopping.

“I’ll knee you in the groin if you-” you get stopped when he carefully inserts a second finger- stretching and prepping as his thumb finds your clit and rubs tauntingly.

“You’ll do what, now, mi amor?”

You can hear he’s having fun even though his face is obscured from your view- your head is leaning back against the wall, suppressing moans, while his is buried in the crook of your neck.

“Undo my belt for me, would you?” he then asks, your fingers complying easily. It takes you a few moments before you finally manage to get it loosened so you can pull down his boxers enough for his length to be free- you mentally chuckle at the wording.

He unceremoniously pulls down your panties and uses both of his hands to lift you up slightly so his erection is rubbing against your slit- and it doesn’t even take him any effort.

“You ready?” he groans, carefully positioning it- all you do is give a soft moan and a nod before you kiss him again.

His tempo when he slides in isn’t calculated, calm or forgiving- it’s wild and quick and sends your back arching into him in an effort to make the spikes of arousal last even longer.

You unwind way before him, sweat running down your face as your grip on his shoulders becomes tighter and he speeds up even more before unraveling himself- groaning with a heaving chest.

Picking up that phone call had been  _ the  _ best decision you’ve ever made.


	12. Epilogue

You looked over the training grounds with a newfound kind of nervosity- it’d been years since you actually were a ‘new’ recruit for anything, and you didn’t quite know what to expect. Next to you were a bunch of young adolescents, even more nervous than you- some even clearly dreading what was to come.

Luckily, you’d had a run in with ‘terrifying’ Gabriel Reyes many, many times before.

It still seemed like a dream- Reyes calling you a few days after your trip with Riggs to the reinstitution, telling you that if you’d like, you could come and join the new Overwatch. Somehow he’d convinced the space gorilla and the silver fox that it would be a good addition- and after a few weeks of planning you’d set out for Gibraltar, after a tearful goodbye to Riggs.

(It wasn’t like it was a definite goodbye, you had her number and you guys tended to video call every few days so she could keep you up to date on her kids’ shenanigans.)

“First of all, welcome,” Morrison says- he’s wearing a mask but Reyes told you it was a force of habit because he’d spent years hiding his identity with that, “second of all, many of you will drop out of this before you see the end of the training. We expect only the best from you and to function in this organization, you need to be at your best 24/7.”

Reyes gives you a wink and you give him a kissy-face back- the recruit next to you raises an eyebrow and elbows you in the side softly.

“You know Reaper?!” he hisses, and you shrug.

“Kind of.”

“You two, keep quiet,” Morrison says before he turns and sees that it’s you, “especially you.”

He points at you and you figure out by his tone that he’s probably smirking- you had a feeling he wouldn’t be going easy on you despite his good nature.

“Sir, yes, sir,” you say in time with the younger recruit, Reyes sporting a gigantic smirk.

“We’ll be dividing you up in teams according to who’ll be training you. After a month of that, we’ll see who passes. Recruits 1 through 5 will be training with Zaryanova, 6 through 10 with me. 11, you train with Reyes.”

You were, of course, 11.

* * *

He apparently had a thing for getting you all out of breath and sweaty, even if it weren’t by biting your neck or arousing you- it had been 2 weeks and you’d clearly forgotten how rigorous training could be. He’d given you a bloody nose, at least 10 bruises and a sting of pain in your hip when you’d spar only for him to sit in Ziegler’s office with you telling you how you could try to beat him.

(Ensuing an argument about how, technically, he still had a bit of the misty powers and you can’t slam dunk mist, but he denied that and said you just needed to try harder.)

* * *

You’d made it through the month- beating Gabriel 2 times and rubbing it in his face for the remainder of the time- together with 3 others. Everyone else either honourably decided this wasn’t their jam and a few were actually booted out- you were probably lucky you knew Gabriel.

Enjoying your promotion to made-it-through-training recruit, you were sitting outside enjoying the sundown together with a nice cup of hot chocolate.

“Already taking a mental break?” you hear Gabriel’s voice quip and you don’t turn- he’s probably going to sit down next to you anyway.

“Yeah. I heard Zaryanova was way worse than you though,” you smile, as he sits down so close your shoulders and thighs touch- he’s extremely warm compared to you. Considering he never felt like hiding how close you were- one time undressing each other on the way to the showers passing by several Overwatch members ánd recruits- it was nice to have small, shared moments of affection.

“She is a tough nut to crack but pretty fun to go drinking with,” he shrugs.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you but Riggs wants to kick you for making my nose bleed, by the way,” you joke, finishing up your cup of sweet chocolate-y goodness while he buries his face in your neck, scruffy chin tickling your skin.

“If she’s as good as you, it’ll take her a while to get there,” he mutters it and he’s clearly tired.

“How’s the treatment going?” you ask- ever since he’d gone back to Morrison and Overwatch they’d done their best to make sure his mist-state wasn’t as prominent anymore, even though he could still use it in battle, mainly because it was painful for him as well.

“Good. Makes me drowsy. Angela said that’s normal.”

You affectionately ruffle his hair.

“Good.”

The sun sets slowly and you don’t remember how exactly but you both fall asleep like that- leaning on each other in the cool summer breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, uh. Don't know how to write epilogues? But I wanted a nice, sappy, wholesome ending for this fic. Hope you enjoyed it!


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